Carryon
by leboisduloup
Summary: A city destroyed, but the angel to blame nowhere to be found. Choices to be made and orders to be followed; kindness and cruelty blur together. All that remains is the question, of where everything began. Spoilers abound.
1. act one

Title:  Carryon [pronounced like carrion, as my silly self will insist on pointing out constantly.]

Rating:  PG-13?  I don't know.  I write, I don't know where it's going...

Notes:  Time period is odd here.  It's obviously not very storyline, as it takes place after another use of the Angel Arm.  Some city has been destroyed, and this is the aftermath.  Everyone's still alive (and questionably well.)  Story contains major spoilers- damn near everything I write does, you know.  ^_^  So you can place this pretty much anywhere you want to.  Have an open mind in that respect, and enjoy the tongari-torture with me.

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A woman's cry resounded in the ruins, matched only by the desolate shrieks of carrion birds.  They floated, lazily, in the hot, smoky air, keen eyes searching through the wreckage.  The woman, too, sought something beneath the twisted metal and the stonework, the ravages of what had been a town.  Now, empty windows were dark portals through walls that leaned drunkenly, separating nothingness from nothingness.  The overwhelming color was gray- a dark, brooding color of smoke, tinted only with the encroaching sands and, farther away, the vicious glitter that had once been the Plant.  The birds had a sharp interest in the scene, and drank in the destruction with satisfaction as they sought nourishment from death.  The woman was oblivious, searching as she did for something that shone in contrast to the gray; anything, any flash of vibrant color.

Her fingers closed, at last, on a soft puddle of crimson; fabric woven of blood.  She cried again, a wordless void somewhere between triumph and desolation.  Fingers dug in the debris, the nails already split, the tips broken and shattered by too much abuse.  It spread a faint mist, here and there, of red; the color echoed and mocked her, as she uncovered her find, bit by bit.

"There's... nothing there..."  Again, torn fingers convulsed, clutching the cloth.  She drew it up from its bed of dust, and dragged the thing over her own shoulders, stopping for a moment to touch one of the black buttons, its shine almost unholy amidst the sudden dullness.  Another figure, weary-looking but determined, detached itself from the ruins a little off, and came to kneel beside the first woman.

"Meryl..."  Warm, large hands came to rest on the smaller woman's shoulders, seeking to comfort as the tall girl sought words that wouldn't come, turning to sand in her mouth.  Sand, which blew over them both like a wind of solitude.  Alone, the girls stared, eyes unseeing, at a wasteland that had once been a city.  


	2. act two

Notes:  Chapter two.  Enter our outlaw.  ::Sad sigh.::  Vash, with all the things I've done to you in the past, this does not compare.  Gomen, tongari-sama!  ::Gives the poor plantboi a hug.::

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_Somewhere beneath the shifting sands..._

No one noticed when the lids folded back from emerald depths; or, if they did, no one cared enough to speak to the man.  His lips moved, and he relished oddly the strange sensation, having been deprived of conscious action for so long; however, whether or not he tried, no voice left them.  He paused, trying to gather wits; they had been blown to the wind, however, and try as he might, not a memory would come to him.  The sound of voices came from nearby... a low murmur, constantly.  It had been, he realized, on the edge of his perception for some time now, though he had not realized it until now.

Lids struggled to fall closed once more; he forced them open, staring straight ahead.  Or, rather, up.  He didn't recognize the ceiling above- almost a mercy, for at least he felt entirely strange.  It might have been worse if he'd felt at home with surroundings, when he wasn't at home with himself.  A breath was expelled in a rather indifferent sigh.  Though he didn't know who he was, or where, the fact didn't bother him.  Perhaps if the ones who spoke would come and speak to him, he'd be more bothered by the fact.

"...remember... instruct."

The voice was particularly loud, though still muffled; it sounded oddly metallic (perhaps coming through the wall?) and for no reason he could fathom, gave the man a feeling of disgust mingled with something he couldn't quite name.  There was more angry murmuring, and the sound of something striking a hard surface.  A laugh, then, and more words from the voice that had spoken more clearly before.  The man felt an innate dislike for the owner of those smooth tones...  there was something about the way he spoke that seemed like a violation of privacy.  He found himself hoping that, if someone ever came to speak with him, it wouldn't be that man.

The voices died out; the absence of them seemed strange to the man who lay.  He tried to move his head to look, wondering whether there was any clue as to why he was here.

A gasp of pain shot from between clenched teeth as he stopped mid-movement; pain shattered behind his eyelids, white lightning.  Something was wrong with him, certainly.  He tried to ease his head back, and managed to do so with minimal discomfort, though perhaps it was only the numbing effects the first shock had upon him.  He went back to his silent regard of the smooth metal above him, breath coming raggedly, at first, as he fought the spots behind his eyes, then smoother and slower.  Though he clung to wakefulness, soon the exertion caught hold; he drifted back into unconsciousness, troubled by vague dreams he couldn't quite focus on.


	3. act three

The man in the black suit stared incredulously through the panel at the prone form.  Battered, yes; his whole body was black and blue.  However, there was no mistaking the face, underneath the dirt, or the glint of metal below the left shoulder, where an arm should be.  He swore under his breath and crossed himself, wishing he could disbelieve it.

"So, Reverend, you see?  In spite of your... defiance... we hold him after all."  Only the fact that he'd heard it so many times before kept the priest from flinching at the tones in that voice, though the expression of hatred on his face was involuntary.  He remained faced away from his companion, though it made no difference; the other man knew exactly how he felt.  If he wasn't clear about it (and he usually was,) it was useless to hide your feelings from someone who could slip inside your head like a parasite, and _would_ do so without second thought.

"Is that your way of politely telling me I've outlived my purpose?"  There was no bitterness in the tone, though the words nearly demanded it; he was resigned to the fact of his own eventual demise, though he didn't relish the thought, as the other did.  A man of God should at least be comfortable with the thought of dying; else, what did he truly serve?  _Although in my case, I doubt I'll be seein' the pearly gates.  Rather, the ones marked 'Abandon all hope...'_

"Hardly."  He could hear the smirk on the voice, and turned to face the other man.  He, too, stood at the panel, watching.  The supple fingers massaged the smooth flesh of the sinister limb, while the owner of both sets of digits smiled at what he saw.  The Priest couldn't see the rest of the face, hidden behind straying locks of unnatural shades, and was glad of the fact; he hated the malicious way those eyes must be narrowed.  "He... Well, I assume you know what happens to him after he gives in to his nature?"

The priest thought he did, but prayed he didn't.  "Pardon?"

"When he uses his... powers... there tends to be a bit of a loss of memory."  The smile's curve shifted slightly, to the Priest's interest, but the other man made no explanation of what he thought about that.  "The Master thinks it will be... more severe, this time."

"What do you mean, more severe?"  

"Total."

The priest stared through the glass, fingers brushing the cold metal sill of the window.  If Vash had forgotten _everything_... what did it mean?

"So," continued the other man, outwardly oblivious to Nicholas' thoughts, "We require your assistance in... aiding him."  The tone in his voice was far too satisfied for the priest's comfort.  He turned quickly, his motion made ridiculous by the dark dignity his 'superior' held.  It seemed futile; a fact that always kept Nicholas from defiance before.  What was the use in turning on them, when they didn't care?

"If you want me to kill him..."  A hand slid into the fabric of his jacket, finding the familiar twist of metal therein.  He held the gun in his hand a moment, regarding it; considering the oddity of a preacher with such a weapon.  He glanced up.  "As a test of my loyalty?"  He gave a short, sad laugh.  "I've got no loyalty to prove, and we both know it."  An easy flick of the wrist; he tossed the gun at the other man almost lazily.  

Legato barely seemed to move; his fluid step didn't seem a reaction at all.  It infuriated the priest further, but neither flinched when metal hit metal with an accusatory clash.  They remained frozen in this tableau for a moment- one waiting, his pose all challenge and anger, the other as sickeningly untouched as ever, though the smile had fallen from those too-perfect lips into nothingness, leaving the faintest tracing of disgust over porcelain visage.  And then the moment broke, shattering as the echo died, shards of it still present like the afterimage of the sun inside the priest's eyelids.  He didn't move, adamant, and inviting whatever the blue-haired man had to say.  The other, however, had fallen into an easy lean on the wall, an amused and easy (and yet, so predatory) look having come into his face.  Nicholas found it obscene.  

"Why would we want the outlaw destroyed?  No, Priest.  As always, you seem to miss His grander scheme."

"I've spent my life serving a grand plan, Bluesummers.  Your master's is only the fantasy of a child who never grew up."

"So interesting," he said, all trace of amusement gone from his voice.  "That you choose your words thusly.  I was under the impression we served the same being."

"Not by choice, and you know it."  He managed a sneer of his own, fighting the temptation to obey.  The damned fanatic seemed to ooze it- that desire to serve.  His submission was a dominant entity; it both fascinated Nicholas and made him feel unwell.  "Unless you've found an interest in the Lord's redemption?"

"I am the Lord's man, as much as you are, priest."

"_He_ isn't my Lord."

Legato merely smiled, delicate fingertips tracing the veins he knew so well beneath the leather of his left limb.  He eyed Wolfwood through the brushes of poisoned cerulean bangs, causing the priest to take an involuntary half-step back.

"No, Reverend.  What we ask of you is something far simpler."  He paused, enjoying the mingled emotions that rose off the man's unguarded mind; disgust, fear, and hatred.  Such a human array, to despise and be terrified when confronted with the unknown.  He'd forgotten fear, long ago; the only thing he despised, now, was himself.

"We would like you to bring our strayed lamb back into the fold."  He was rewarded by the priest's eyes widening.  "Teach him what he has... forgotten... about the human race.  Our Master so mourns his forgetfulness; until the outlaw learns again, how are they to take their rightful place?"  He waited a moment, relishing the outrage and despair.  "You have your orders, Priest.  See that you serve them well."

He turned on his heel, the grin slitting his face more with each step, and left Nicholas alone to watch, and ponder.


	4. act four

The faint sound of a door opening roused him from troubled rest, and he managed to raise his head just a little- ignoring the fresh blooms of discomfort it caused- to see someone entering.  A man in a black suit- not familiar, though his form tugged at the back of his mind, as though a memory were trying to get his attention.  _Someone I know...?_  It must be- he had a vague lightening of spirit, as though he'd found someone he trusted.  As half-formed as his dislike for the smooth voice, but very different in nature.  

He felt almost like he could open his mouth and the right name would come out.

Still, nothing issued from parted lips.  He let himself sink back to his bed, hues fixed on the newcomer's (somehow, _stranger_ didn't seem to fit,) face as he approached.

"Feeling any better?" he asked casually, leaning one hand on the edge of the bed.  Absolutely relaxed, although there was a tightness below his expression that hinted at more.  If anything, the familiarity with which he spoke reinforced the impression that this was someone he'd been close to, in another time.

Pale brows creased over glass-green eyes.  "Who are you?"  The sound of his own voice was something of a surprise- unfamiliar with disuse.  The first words he'd spoken since...  _since when_?  Half-dreamed memories teased him, like photographs under water- blurred, leaving only the most amorphous shapes.  Hardly a guide for his reactions.

The darker man's brows arched, as though he'd been surprised, but his eyes spoke sadness.  "Mmn.  So you really _don't_ remember."  He paused, nodded to himself, and moved out of sight a bit.  A dragging sound, and he reappeared, a bit lower.  _A chair,_ mused the man on the bed.  It reminded him he hadn't had a look at his surroundings_.  Hardly my usual behavior,_ came the instinctive, amused thought- but when he tried to consider it, to determine what his usual behavior _was_, it slipped away again.

"Guess we'll hafta start with the basics, then..."  The man on the bed turned, as well as he could, to face the other.  The suited stranger, who evidently knew him, was in the process of lighting a cigarette.  There was a flash of silver on his sleeve- the shape took a moment to process.

"Interesting habit, for a priest."

"You remember?"  He sounded hopeful as he glanced up, fixing the prone man with a piercing glance.

He shook his head as best as he could.  "Not really.  I saw the crosses, and it seemed to fit."  A pause.  "Did I guess it, then?"

The dark-haired man only smiled, and continued as though he hadn't been interrupted.  "First off, then.  I'm Nicholas Wolfwood-"

_-A hand extended and a rather smug grin, the rough motion of the bus-_

"-And I guess it's my job to remind you of everything you've forgotten."  A frown darkened his features for a second, before he shrugged it off.  "So... uh... Where do you want me to start?"  Nicholas seemed a little uncomfortable.

"You could begin by telling me who _I_ am," came the reply, a bit annoyed.

"You're Vash the Stampede," Wolfwood replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Great.  And who's that?"

Though neither man would admit it, the faintest trace of satisfied, dark laughter echoed in the recesses of their minds... 


	5. act five

When the weapon had been put into his hands, he'd twirled it absently.  The motion surprised him- surprised the priest as well, it seemed.  Though that which had resided in his mind was gone, nimble fingers (the only real ones he possessed- he hadn't yet worked up the courage to ask about his left hand-) were no less nimble.  Muscles remembered what Vash had forgotten; the gun fell into his palm like an old friend.  

"This is mine?"  It was a beautiful weapon... though to be fair, something deep within him flinched.  He tossed it idly to the other hand and ran fingers along the barrel thoughtfully, opened it up.  Fully loaded, ready and waiting for him to remember it.  He still couldn't recall a thing.

The priest nodded, then realized the outlaw's eyes were elsewhere.  "Yeah."

Vash nodded, but said no more, idly handling the gun... it was unearthly, how easily he adapted to holding it.  _Though if this is all to be believed, I've had it for a very, very long time.  He slipped the gun into the new holster, somewhat comforted by the familiar weight at his hip.  _It's not the old holster... doesn't feel right._  Sensory memory, occasional flashes of instinct- that was as far as his recollection went.  His body moved along without him, knowing what was expected of it, surprising him with peculiar grace and unearthly reflexes.  Which had been explained as well... though, still, he found it hard to take in.  _

The preacher- Wolfwood- was another oddity.  Vash's instinct was to trust him, though if he'd had to say why, he'd stay silent... but the man's manner was confusing.  Half the time he treated Vash as an equal, a friend- _that seemed right.  But now and then an odd look would cross his face, and he'd take on an air of uncomfortable subservience, respect bordering on forced worship.  It made him uncomfortable, though he'd been made to understand that Wolfwood was something of a servant, a personal aide- the counterpart to the peculiar blue-haired man his brother kept.  Vash, however, found it impossible to hold such contempt for the priest, and the oft-casual attitude the other displayed made it hard to believe he'd ever harbored any.  This was not the vengeful disrespect of a servant whose master was indisposed- this was the joking of an old partner-in-crime.  Or so it seemed to him; nevertheless, the only information he had to go on was what he'd been given.  And that never seemed to fit together properly for him.  _

It made sense.  He'd give it that.  His brother- whom he'd met with two, perhaps three times, in what must be months at the Complex- had explained everything; their nature, their abuses at the hands of humanity.  The Ship- that rang in Vash's heart like a discordant bell.  It seemed, sometimes, like there was more to the story than he was hearing, and if he could only remember it, he'd understand everything.  

The past made a haphazard sort of sense.  It didn't go against his gut feelings.  It was Knives' vision of the future that bothered him.  He drew the gun out once more to examine it, turning away from Wolfwood in his distraction.

_Have I really shed as much blood as he'd have me believe...?  _The idea that he was a murderer, an outlaw... A criminal of great repute and no morality... something didn't seem right about it.  _But the priest told me that, before anything else.  Vash the Stampede.  It even _feels_ right.  And Knives expects me to join him in his... his cleansing.  Destroy the humans.  "And I'm supposed to use this to... what?  Kill the humans?"_

Again, that odd look passed over Nicholas' face.  "So Lord Knives desires," he said.  _Evasive words, and a tone of... what?  Disapproval?  It made sense.  Wolfwood obviously didn't share Legato's enthusiasm for the destruction of his kind.  _Then why is he here?_  And for that matter, Vash couldn't bring himself to share his brother's.  _I can't seem to steel myself to do it...  __

Honestly, the more they explained to him, the less he understood.  He could accept some of it- bits of the past, fragments of his nature and his abilities seemed to resonate, to fit.  But the rest seemed nonsensical- a story made to fit the circumstances.  It seemed so strange that his life- his quest, for his kind- should be alien to him.  Obviously, certain kinds of memory remained, buried deep within him... Otherwise, how could he have these strange half-memories, these sensations of what was and was not accustomed?  Everyone must know more than they were telling.  "And _you.  What part do you play in all this?"  He turned around with his abrupt question, fixing a keen gaze on the priest.  "Why are you in the game, when it's your own destruction you're working for?"  Vash knew about the Gung-Ho-Guns- to which the priest allegedly belonged- but it didn't seem to fit him.  The misanthropy and delight in destruction that drove their efforts didn't apply... Vash couldn't see Wolfwood as being anything less than good-natured.  _He's a priest; isn't he automatically supposed to be forgiving?__

A flicker of what Vash took for irritation came over the priest's face before he spoke, as though the question were impolite, or the answer... God, what _was it?  If he could just pinpoint what was _wrong_ with the situation- he'd understand then, he knew it.  There was something no one was telling him, and whatever it was, it was the key to everything.  _

"I..."  He paused.  "I'm here... Because I believe, or did, in your cause."

"My brother's cause, you mean," murmured the plant darkly.  "Though I'm told it's all the same."

The priest could not, or would not, answer that.  Vash found it hard to blame him.

The outlaw secured the gun once more at his hip, fingers lingering for a moment to trace the worn grip, dancing carefully beside the trigger.  He spared a moment's regard to the brilliant metal, before meeting the impervious slate gaze once more.  

"...Take me to see my brother."  


	6. act six

Much thanks to all my readers.  I love you all.  Sorry there's usually such a delay between updates- the simple fact is the muses are fickle, and my schedule's oppressive, and so fanfic gets pushed lower on the priority list than I'd like.  But, here- in record time, as it were.  For xodanio- see, look, less than four months!  ^^  If it's substandard, blame them.  (just kidding.  Hopefully there's no need to blame anyone, but if there is, it's the muses' fault.  ::Nod!::  Not mine, or the readers'.  Especially not the precioussss readers'.  I LOVE YOOOU!  Really!!)

Other quick note I've been meaning to make, as far as 'setting' goes.  This is _predominantly_ based on the anime, because I've honestly not read a lot of the manga, as I dislike muddling through text-only translations.  I might, if I feel adventurous, throw in some more.. blended.. aspects at a later date, but it's really not important.  What I mean to mention is, I'm not nearly as familiar with the end of the series as I ought to be (it's been a while, gimme a break.)  So if there's anything you think is glaringly incorrect, feel free to bring it to my attention; however, for the most part the entire thing is my own interpretation and I'll hide behind artistic license if I can.  ^^  This only becomes important now because, uh, Knives is here.  Whoo.  

Anywhoo, here's chapter 6.  Carryon's been difficult for me to write- too many conflicts in remembered and rebuilt relations between all the characters to keep straight, you know?  So hopefully I'll not let you all down.  And anyone who feels the urge- please do feel free to catch me on aim sometime [screenname: leboisduloup] and chat.  I'd also like to know what you guys think of my Knives, who finally gets to talk here- I've never been comfortable writing him, but I hope he's believable.  I don't _see him as a remorseless lunatic, but I __write him that way.  Why?  BECAUSE IT WORKS IN CONTEXT!  Don't kill me, please?  Feedback craved intensely.  Chapter 7 will probably take a while, 'cos it'll require my actually setting up the plot instead of just introducing hints and herrings for it.  Oh boy.  X.x  Love and peace, m'friends! ^^_

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"Ever the doubting one," he chided, voice running with currents of unfathomable amusement.  It bordered, perhaps, on malice; but, no, that made no sense.  Not that anything did.  "Do I need to explain it all again?"

"No."  Vash breathed out, eyeing the long-stemmed wineglass Legato had handed him thoughtfully.  The liquid within was a deep, rich red.  For a moment, he succumbed to melodrama and the obvious connotations of the color- but, no, blood was a lighter, more brilliant shade.  _Like those flowers_- But the thought died as he seized upon it.  "I just can't quite comprehend..."

"Why I do it?"

"Why you _enjoy it.  The pain.  The murder.  The killing."_

Knives chuckled.  Vash watched his brother from beneath the shade of his brows, perplexed.  He couldn't doubt the man's identity, if nothing else- it was like looking into a pale mirror, although the supposed outlaw found it difficult to believe his features looked so cold.  The self-righteous assurance the other plant displayed was unbelievable_.  No wonder he says I'm in doubt... He's so certain of himself, of his- our- cause...  Why can't I remember?_

Knives rose from his seat with the coiled grace of a striking serpent, moving to a 'window' silently.  As far as Vash knew, they were underground; but obviously the Complex was a bastion of what they called 'lost' technology, so little managed to surprise him.  Silhouetted against digital sand, the edges of his form lined in gold from the unnatural light, Knives controlled his laughter.  "It's merely...  A job well done, I suppose?  I take pride in ridding the planet of those vermin, freeing our brethren from their demands.  They live by our blood, Vash- is it wrong of me to enjoy paying it back, making them feel every precious second of drain, taking back every bit of the energy they stole from our kind?  They're worthless, thankless...  Incapable of anything but parasitism.  It's a mercy to destroy them, before they destroy themselves, or fall victim to the desert itself.  They're inferior, Vash- they'll always be less.  We are here to survive.  They are only here because they're tenacious, sickening insects.  We endure.  Without us, they could not.  Without killing our sisters slowly, they themselves would die.  And for that, I cannot bear to see them go on."

"It isn't your debt to pay."

"_What?"  Knives turned.  The motion was sharp enough to cut the air, and the conversation; two drops of burgundy spilled from his own crystal-cut glass to spread small stains on an otherwise impeccable white glove.  The motion settled, and the scene seemed again undisturbed, but for the incriminating pair of sullen red spots on the glove, and the expression residing within icy hues.  Knives never looked happy.  Smug, perhaps; self-righteous and self-satisfied, always.  But never _happy_.  _

Now, though, his eyes had lost all trace of amusement; the veneer of culture and civilization had vanished, replaced by something heartless and ravenous, bent on destruction to prove itself.  The gaze was drawn over Vash's seated form, piercing and calculating.  A lump catching in his throat at the sudden change of mood- the very atmosphere seemed charged, ready to burst and take them all with it- Vash was unable to answer.  

Suddenly aware he'd let himself slip, Knives turned his regard back to the sand-filled screen, careful not to let his voice adopt the harsh, angry tone that had betrayed his enragement at the question.  "Perhaps not mine, directly; but our sisters are trapped, bound in glass and wire...  They cannot fight for themselves, cannot free themselves.  It would be sick of us to leave them to that.  You and I must be their saviors."

Vash remained silent, contemplating, trying to reason it out.  The persuasive words itched at him, nagging.  Instinct, such as it was, warned him against belief.  _And yet, everything he's said is true...  They do__ live by exploiting the plants in the bulbs, but....  Does that really mean we have to....?  The thought made him sick (and yet, if his brother spoke the truth, Vash had killed with equal ruthlessness, if not more.  The Priest had brought him papers, yellowed clippings of precious paper, writing that spoke of the terrible destruction that followed in his wake.  The Humanoid Typhoon, they called him; a one-man Act of God.  His cold-bloodedness bordered on legend.)_

Rightly or wrongly, Knives took Vash's silence for acceptance.  "Get some rest.  Soon we will begin, and you will see.  I promise."  The smile was back in his voice- the oddly reptilian grin that seemed more a baring of teeth than an expression of pleasure.  Vash didn't need to see it to imagine it, and only by sheer will could he keep a chill from running down his spine.  Placing the untouched glass of wine on the smooth, dark table, he stood and left the room.  No words were spoken, and the door slid shut behind him unbidden.  

Knives, once his brother had left the room, reclaimed his own vacated seat, the fingers of one gloved hand raised to massage his temples.  Unimpeded now by the show of blandness he kept up for Vash's sake, his scowl spread, giving him a lean, hungry look; a predator at uneasy rest.  "Minion."

"Yes, Lord?"  Legato stepped from the shadows where he'd remained for the duration of the outlaw's visit, unseen by either plant, unknown to the amnesiac.  Head fell in customary obeisance to his Master; he awaited his orders with the kind of patience commanded only by religious fanatics and madmen.  

"Ready the Guns.  As soon as he is ready, I want Vash to see humanity at its best."  Lips curled from white teeth in what might be called a smile, at least on this man's face.  "We will free the nearest of my sisters from her servitude, and I want the town populated with mankind's finest, for his benefit.  I expect you can make all the necessary... arrangements."

"Yes, Lord."  A small smile spread.  Few things quickened Legato's spirit as easily as the promise of carnage.  "It shall be as you wish."  

"Good."  The tone demanded solitude; Legato, used to his Master's moods by now, took it as the dismissal it represented and slid silently from the room to serve his Lord's will.  

Knives remained in the dimly lit room, caught in his own thoughts.  He did not regret.  He had never learned to regret.  

Above them all, the wind moved over the sands, wearing them away as it had for a thousand years, as it would for a thousand more.  The desert never changed.  It never forgot.  


End file.
